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Chapter one
Meg – My Own Paradise
Just another day in paradise , I think, as I wake up smiling to the sun’s rays lining up on my pillow. Paradise is something few people get to experience these days, but I’m lucky enough to actually live in it.
My small beach town, Seaside Cove, awaits just down the road from our cottage. Seaside Cove is a sweet hidden gem on the Florida Atlantic coast. Unlike many oceanfront places it has maintained its old-fashioned feel. Townspeople know each other. Amazingly the shore is mainly small cottages and local businesses.
Why we are not overcome with more high rises is probably because the Interstate is not close and most big box businesses have not yet invaded our area.
We look out to the ocean from our front porch. And better yet, we’re only steps away from Seaside Inn, where I work.
After my sister Mia and our grandfather who owns Seaside Inn, my next biggest love has to be animals – the ones who live with me and the ones that Inn guests bring along on vacation. Those are mainly dogs, and I get to walk them every day. What a perfect job!
Mia is older by two years and the responsible one. I’m the independent and carefree sister, with dreams of meeting the handsome and caring billionaire who’ll sweep me off my feet. Maybe on a white horse. Yeah right!
More likely my dream guy will end up stuffy and nerdy, and I’ll be forced to work next to him on a daily basis.
Regardless of any man in my future, I know where we will be. Right here! I love the town and our inn. It’s perfect.
I cannot imagine anyone trying to change things, or worse, trying to buy our inn out from under us like in other places. It’s valuable ocean-front land without the influx of modern skyscrapers and I love it just the way it is.
Any man who steals my heart had better not have any hurtful plans for my hometown.
Woe to that man for sure.
Chapter two
Meg – Monday Morning
It’s almost seven in the morning, and soon locals and tourists will be exploring the beach and the quaint little shops that line the sand. Yes, there are other paradises out there, but they’re nothing like mine. No one can convince me otherwise.
There’s something about walking along the beach, feeling the sand tickle my toes, and hearing the symphony of waves crashing on the shore that feeds my soul. Every time I look out onto the water, I can’t help but wonder where the last wave had come from. At what other shore on the other side of the world did it begin its journey, and why has it landed on mine?
Not everyone can find a place that feels like this. I can’t imagine being in a job that has me moving every couple of years. I’m fortunate enough to have found a place here in Seaside where I don’t question where I’m heading. It’s home—simply home.
Most people hate mornings, but I don’t. It’s the best time of day, especially when I know there are adorable fur babies waiting for me to walk them on the pet lawn or the beach at the inn.
The majority of hotels don’t allow guests to bring pets, but that’s not the case at The Seaside Inn. Pets of all shapes and sizes are welcome, so the fact that my job as a concierge also doubles as a dog walker just makes my work days feel that much less like work.
It helps that my grandfather owns the inn and knows exactly how much people care about their pets, just from watching my sister and I fawn over our four-legged friends.
What’s more, I don’t have to wear my work uniform on this particular day. It’s too warm for stuffy polo shirts and khaki pants. Instead, I get to don my favored beachy attire—namely, sandals, a flowy pink tank top, and white shorts.
I have a theory that attire is the reason why so many corporate CEOs and all the “whoever’s” are so darn grumpy all the time. If they dressed with a bit more comfort in mind, maybe they wouldn’t be such jerks. I see it all the time when people come from out of town and trade their polo shirts for Tommy Bahamas.
Maybe the sangrias and tequila sunrises help, but even the most relaxed guests can’t enjoy themselves in loafers and scratchy slacks.
After combing through my own beachy waves and rubbing on some lip gloss, I throw on my “work attire” and head next door to my sister Mia’s room. She’s still out cold.
“Wake up, lazybones! Rise and shine!” I say, as I flop on her bed, landing next to her. She groans and buries her head deeper under the white linen sheets.
Despite us living in the same paradise, her job handling reservations and cancellations doesn’t seem to inspire the same gusto in her as mine gives me. I keep trying to get her out on the beach with the dogs and me, but her more practical side keeps her anchored to the back office for most of the day. Her hard work never goes unnoticed by our grandpa, though.
When we ask why he doesn’t visit the inn as often as he used to when we first started, his answer makes us both happy and a little sad. “Because of Mia’s hard work and your enthusiasm with handling the dogs, Meg, you both have made this old man redundant with his own inn,” our grandfather would say.
I think the reasons we work so hard are to make our grandfather proud and that we don’t want to work anywhere else or find ourselves in a place that makes us miserable. Seaside has everything we could ever need. But still, Mia isn’t the biggest morning person.
“It’s 7 on a Monday! You’re too perky, and I know for darn sure you haven’t had coffee yet,” she grumbles, as she tries pushing me off the bed.
